


In Which Obvious Means Something Completely Different to Sherlock Than to Anyone Else

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Series: In Which Sherlock Knits, and Other Tales of 221B Baker St. [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Have y'all noticed I don't do kissing yet, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Someday I will learn to write deductions well, Things that make me happy include describing Sherlock's eyes as knife-like, it's my favorite simile for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An idea that has been done before probably but I want to do again. Written purely while listening to Hold My Hand by New Found Glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Obvious Means Something Completely Different to Sherlock Than to Anyone Else

"You always correct them."

John's eating lunch and Sherlock's skipping it (again, John wishes he could convince him that food actually helps brain activity but one does not criticize Sherlock Holmes' case-solving methods on pain of a sulk worthy of a five year old with a brain the size of a planet). He chokes a bit on his pasta and splutters, which is a pity because Angelo's cooking is honestly fantastic and deserves to be savoured. After a moment spent valiantly finding his composure so he can swallow, John comes up with a most eloquent reply.

"Huh?"

"When people assume we're…together, you always correct them." Sherlock's eyes are even more piercing than usual. John fights back the urge to quail (this must be what it feels like to be stared at by God, this weighing, judgmental and yet not judgmental at all look) because that would just encourage him.

"Well," he says, breaking eye contact to look back down at his plate, "we aren't together."

"But it's not as though you'll ever convince them," Sherlock persists. "Easier by far to ignore it. People talk, they do little else but gossip, and the truth of the rumours is hardly relevant."

John knows it's coming. He can feel Sherlock's eyes (all-seeing, if not necessarily comprehending all he sees) boring into his head, breaking him down into elements, reassembling those elements into facts he can use. One may as well walk into the arena with head held high in defiance as be dragged in.

"Go ahead," he sighs. "Deduce it, I know you're itching to."

He can just barely imagine the squeak of a child handed a new, long-dreamt-of toy.

"It's not as though you're disgusted by homosexual relationships," Sherlock begins, no preamble - but then he never does. "Your problem with Harry is her drinking, not Clara. It's not a matter of dignity or creed, then. And it isn't me-you've already displayed a remarkable tolerance for me, even fondness. It's reasonable to assume you could handle deepening our bond.

"We've already discussed how useless it is to protest people's assumptions. Rumours never die. Therefore, it's either for my elucidation, or your benefit. Thinking _I_ wouldn't notice is purely ludicrous -" 

John has to grin a bit, because yes, thinking Sherlock _wouldn't_ notice something like being in a relationship with his male flatmate is laughable, and the consulting detective's simple knowledge of his own abilities is refreshing when fake modesty is the trend in London and the world. He has no doubt some people would claim they thought there were miscommunications about the whole thing, but never Sherlock.

"So it's for your benefit," Sherlock continues without a pause. "Interesting. You're a heterosexual male; what could you need to repeat a statement like that for? Unless you're not quite as heterosexual as you think… _Ah_."

Even if his eyes are the silver of a falling guillotine blade now, John still can't help but think he's gorgeous with that mouth open in a perfect heart and cheekbones - well, the cheekbones don't really need him to hang any more flowery metaphors on them, to be quite honest.

"It's your mantra," he says, in that light tone where he has the truth, he's just being extremely generous to the mere mortals and sharing it with them. "You say it to remind yourself that no matter how it feels, we aren't _together…_ just very close…friends." The way he hesitates over the last word reminds John of correcting him to 'colleague' in front of that slimy twat Sebastian Wilkes, and his heart flutters painfully even though right now it's laid open on Sherlock's dissection table.

He isn't sure what to say, or whether to get angry, dismiss it, or perhaps start looking for alternate lodgings. There's another painful tremor in his chest at the very idea - but then he knew already that that isn't an option, anyway.

While he's reeling, Sherlock sips delicately at his coffee. "Ridiculous, really," he says with a little huff of impatience at, John imagines, the whole idea of sentiment and caring. That one little breath sends him over the edge.

"All right, yes, you've got it, good for you," John snaps, jumping to his feet. He pulls out his wallet and throws down enough to cover his side of the meal. "Yes, I fancy you quite a lot, and I know it's damn stupid of me, because you're-"

"John." Isn't that just typical, being interrupted as if he doesn't really have a right to be upset. He's about to ignore it, but Sherlock keeps going.

"John, sit down, this is completely unnecessary. When I said 'ridiculous,' I meant the fact that you hadn't said anything."

"Well, no, I wouldn't, would I?" John demands, not sitting. "After that conversation -" and this is that same booth, too, he realizes.

Sherlock is giving him that pitying look he uses when people (who aren't Anderson) are being particularly thick.

"Didn't you ever think the answer might've changed?" His voice is full of blank incomprehension, as though it's perfectly reasonable for someone to declare that they're married to their work and then just change their mind. John tells him as much.

"That was before," Sherlock says dismissively.

"Before what?"

" _Before_." John's about to complain about the sheer mysteriousness of that answer when Sherlock locks eyes with him and something passes between them, one of those little unspoken exchanges that happen on a nearly daily basis.

 _Before_ : before the chase and the abandoned cane, before the dead cabbie-cum-serial killer; before a date forgotten to save a friend (and all the abandoned dates since); before the pool, before another wordless conversation - "yes, you can have my life, I'm putting it in your hands, it's worthless without you anyway."

Before all of that. John finds himself smiling.

"So has it changed?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replies. He picks up John's money and hands it back to him, then lays down his own and rises. "Let's go home. You look as if you're in shock. I believe you need a blanket."

If, as the gleam in his eye promises, this blanket has miles of limbs inclined to wrap around things and soft-looking dark hair he can twine his fingers in, John can't say he thinks this is a bad idea at all.


End file.
